


all children are sleeping but you

by curlymcclain, shamefulshameless



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Boris POV, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Domestic Violence, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Las Vegas Era, M/M, a n g s t, boris is SOFT!!!!! HES SOFT!!!!, unbelievable angst, very mild underage consensual stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 10:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlymcclain/pseuds/curlymcclain, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamefulshameless/pseuds/shamefulshameless
Summary: There’s a boy in his English class.New, like him. (He knows this because no one talks to him, either.) He sits in front of Boris, one seat to the right, so it’s easy to make out his gloomy face. And Boris doesn’t know what it is about the boy that intrigues him so much- it could be the fact that when he does speak in class, rarely, the things he says are some of the only things Boris has ever heard in a classroom that make sense. It could be the fact that he looks like Harry Potter, with his shaggy hair and big round glasses. Or that he never, ever smiles.





	all children are sleeping but you

Boris’ mother hadn’t been an attentive one, nor- truthfully- a very good one, as far as he can remember. She was gone too often, came back too late. When she didn’t leave him at home by himself, she brought him into seedy, smoky places she probably shouldn’t have- some of his earliest memories are of back rooms and alleyways, loud music and half-dressed people grappling around behind bars.

He doesn’t remember a lot about her. He knows he looks something like her, because he remembers her pitch black curls sticking up in every direction, no matter what she did to try and tame them. As black as her eyes. He remembers running between her knobbly knees, her skin as pale as his turned out to be. She wasn’t as shrewd or cruel as his father, but wasn’t as soft as people in movies like to pretend their dead mothers are. 

But she loved him, in her way. He remembers that much. 

And she sang. Beautifully, she sang. Her speaking voice, low and raspy from cigarettes and drink, lent itself at night to absolute perfection. (As his father reminded Boris sometimes, arm draped heavily over his shoulder, she wanted to be a singer, before she got pregnant. That’s another thing he knows about her: his father misses her.) She would pull Boris’ head into her lap and hum, or sing the Polish lullabies that her mother sang to her as a child.

_ A-a-a, a-a-a, byly sobie kotki dwa… _

Two small kittens. This was his favorite of all the songs she sang, and the only one he remembered after she died.

And it became his mantra. Every time.

Every time he was thrown halfway across the room by a heavy shove, or felt ice cold cut diamonds slash across his cheekbone, or lay flat on the floor, legs up, holding his bedroom door closed with his feet as his father screamed, trying to bust in, he heard it ring through his ears. He gritted it through his teeth, he whispered it into his pillow until his breath evened out.

_ A-a-a, kotki dwa, szarobure, szarobure obydwa… _

He’d sit in frigid classrooms, aware of the stares he got. Besides the fact that he was already an oddity in the places he lived- black clothes, mysterious bruises, in the back of the room hunched over Russian language novels and reeking of cigarette smoke- he was the Pavlikovsky boy. He was the reason their parents had lost their jobs, or had to move. He was the reason for the drop in local water quality, even a few explosions here and there, a few deaths. His very presence meant dusty, blackened earth, rot in the air.

Friends his own age were not an option.

Being hated was such a part of his life that he barely even thought of it anymore. It was only logical. He would hate him, too.

He’d met some nice adults, as far as adults go. Judy, Bami, the other folks at the mosque. Yet he always felt awkward under their gaze. They would smile at him affectionately, and while he knew it was genuine, there was, every time, something darker lying underneath. Something stronger.

(Boris would realize, years later, it was worry. What he must have looked like to them, he thinks; starved, dirty, lonely and wild. He would maybe feel the same sickened concern, if he met a child as desolate as that now.)

There hadn’t been anyone like that in Alaska, for better or worse. There hadn’t been school, either- just an ancient computer program that he mostly ignored. He’d sit up most bright nights, reading whatever he could get his hands on, drinking and smoking in the empty house. Boris didn’t mind solitude. How could he after all this time with nothing but? 

Sometimes, though, and he wouldn’t ever admit it, he’d wake up hunched in a ball, clutching himself fiercely. There would be tears on his dirty sheets and indents on his upper arms, where he’d dug his own fingernails into them, in search of someone’s skin other than his own.

On mornings like this, he would find himself singing.

_ Ach, śpij, kochanie, jesli gwiazdke z nieba chcesz-dostaniesz… _

There’s a boy in his English class. New, like him. Boris knows this because no one talks to him, either.

He sits in front of Boris, one seat to the right, so it’s easy to make out his gloomy face. He looks younger than he probably is- or maybe he’s one of those overachievers who skipped three grades and is headed to university at age 15. Boris rules out the latter once he notices how often the boy drifts off into nothingness during class, gazing out the window, at the floor, at his own hands.

Boris doesn’t know what it is about the boy that intrigues him- it could be the fact that when he does speak in class, rarely, the things he says are some of the only things Boris has ever heard in a classroom that make sense. It could be the fact that he never smiles. Or that he looks like Harry Potter, with his shaggy hair and big round glasses. 

They ride the same bus, the one that goes all the way out to Canyon Shadows. Boris spots him waiting for it one day and considers saying something, asking him to sit together maybe, or asking a question about the homework he has no intention of doing. 

But there’s no doubt in his mind that Harry Potter has better things to do; friends in whatever fancy place he’s from, who dress in the same clean collared shirts that he does. There’s not really a point.

And Boris isn’t particularly upset about that; he doesn’t need friends, and he’s perfectly content to make up a fascinating tale for Harry Potter in his head. He’s the only interesting person at this idiot school, and whatever Boris may actually learn about him may shatter that image. What if he’s just another snotty Vegas rich kid? 

So he sits in English, staring down a loose thread on Harry Potter’s sweater, craning his neck slightly to see what he’s doodling in the margins of his notes. A girl with a gruesome scar where her hair should be. Below it, a pointed lollipop. 

One afternoon, Boris climbs onto the bus and sees him in the frontmost seat. He brushes past him, and for just a moment, they look at each other.

This is the first time Boris notices his eyes- they're quite possibly the saddest he’s ever seen. Boris has seen countless people in grief, in poverty and heartbreak and despair, but nothing comes close to this. His eyes are two open wounds.

Mrs. Spear calls him Theo. It suits him, Boris thinks, though not as much as Harry Potter. 

Boris doesn’t spend all his time watching him. He doesnt go home and think about him, or imagine what it would be like if they were friends. He’s just… interested. When he does see him, he’s always the least boring thing in the room, and that’s good enough in this shithole town. 

Boris does, admittedly, wonder what makes him so sad. But not enough to do anything about it.

He notices a lot about him. Like how he’s constantly listening to music. On the bus, in between classes, at lunch- where he sits alone against a tree, underlining passages in _ Walden- _ his earbuds are always in, his mind clearly someplace else. Boris thinks he probably listens to real music, with actual instruments, and not the American pop star swill everyone here always blasts from their speakers in the courtyard.

When they finally speak, it’s almost surreal.

_ Twat. _

Boris thought he’d been quiet, really he had. But Mrs. Spear catches his snide remark- and so does Harry Potter, who turns quickly in his seat to look at him. 

For a split second, Boris feels uncomfortable; seen, like a painting at a museum had come to life and grabbed him by the collar. But it’s clear, looking into those tragic eyes, that Theo is just another kid. Like him.

So Boris raises an eyebrow. _ Can you believe these fucking idiots? _

They get to talking, and before long the air of mystery is gone. But Boris doesn’t find Theodore Decker from New York City any less interesting than he found Harry Potter.

He actually invites Theo to his house- something he never does, ever. But it’s clear Theo doesn’t mind the hectic state of Boris’ room or that his swimming pool is full of sand. He seems to find it all kind of _ cool. _

Theo shows him his iPod, and Boris scrolls through it with appreciation. (His instincts had been right.) Theo promises he’ll show him the newer stuff that he hasn’t heard before. Animal Collective, Panda Bear.

And even that small mention of a possible future hangout gives Boris pause. A friend. A constant. Just one. Not using him for weed or a hookup, or a casual acquaintance to be forgotten about. He hasn’t had a _ friend _ since Ukraine.

Boris smiles. "Sounds good, Potter."

_ Wszystkie dzieci, nawet źle, pogrążone są we śnie, a ty jedna tylko nie… A-a-a… _

He teaches Theo the song once, in his delirium. (He doesn’t tell him why he sings it- that it’s what he always does after his father gets mad. That it’s his little mantra, two small kittens, it’ll be okay, he’ll get over it, the bruises will fade.) But Theo laughs at it, innocently, laughs while he tries to sing it, and Boris is often startled by the lengths he’ll go to make Theo laugh.

When they’re done singing, he’s too out of it to be worried by the amount of blood he spits onto the pavement. 

They head back to Theo’s, into the pool. At first, Boris thinks they’re playing, like normal. He’s holding him underwater when Theo- suddenly, wickedly- gets mad.

He starts yelling, advancing toward Boris- _ shit, Potter, never mind, _he tries to say, he feels his nose start bleeding again, he wants to get out, but then Theo yanks him down by the ankle and he can’t see anything but his own blood, floating up towards the surface.

He’s up again, and Theo is infuriated, pushing sheet after sheet up his nose. Boris doesn’t know what’s going on, Theo’s got his hands on his shoulders, right in a spot where his dad’s cane had landed not long before, please, stop, I want to be done, I’m sorry for whatever it was I did.

Theo stops. He’d heard what Boris was saying, without him having to say it. His voice brings Boris back to earth. _ Hey. Are you okay? _

He doesn’t know how to answer. He lets Theo pull him halfway out of the pool, and he feels like he’s left his body, he’s up, looking down at the two of them. Nomads, orphans, brothers, whatever.

That’s also the night they become a lot more, and the first of many where they agree never to talk about that.

_ “Zaśpiewaj to jeszcze raz!” _

It takes Boris a long time to realize what it is. He and Theo have been friends for almost a year when it hits him. He doesn't remember it the morning after, or else perhaps he would have run away the moment he was sober enough to stand. But as it is, this is what he forgets:

They’re in the bed they’ve come to share, both drunk out of their minds, hair still damp from the swim they’d taken earlier instead of going to school. Knotted around each other’s fingers.

This happens all the time now, almost every night. It’s not that Boris doesn’t want to talk about it; it’s just that Theo seems so unbothered, so casual when they wake up each morning having done it, that Boris figures it must not be as important as it feels.

Tonight, they’re actually laughing as they rock into each other, _ ha ha, wouldn’t it be funny if we were actually doing this? _

Right at the end, when neither of them can stand it anymore, Boris lurches his head forward to bury it in Theo’s neck, as he’s done so many times. But there’s confusion; the timing is wrong or maybe it’s perfect because Theo leans forward too, and the corners of their lips crash together.

It’s an accident, of course. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and entirely against the rules. For all they _ have _done, their mouths have never touched, not even at the edges, like now, with their teeth clacking together painfully. An accident.

So why does Boris feel suddenly like he’s stood up too quickly, his blood rushing to his feet? Why does his chest clench up around his lungs, why does he begin to blush? 

It wasn’t a kiss. It was, like everything with Theo, impulsive, messy, and a little bit… off_ . _

Theo has already collapsed back onto the pillow, not intending to do anything about the mess they’ve just made. Pretend it didn’t happen, by any means necessary.

So Boris cleans it up, forcing himself to ignore that petrifying feeling in his chest.

He thinks he may be sick, a flu maybe. But he’s not in pain.

He’d heard panic attacks can feel like this, but he doesn’t have shortness of breath, either. 

He can’t help it- he replays the moment over and over again in his head. Chapped lips, sweaty cheekbones, vodka breath. 

It didn’t mean anything. They hadn’t even meant to do it. But Boris swears- he _ swears _\- he felt Theo’s bottom lip tremble, start to move beneath his. He swears it.

He’s about to climb back into bed when he stops cold. Theo’s attempted, in his sleep, to put his glasses back on. They hang off one ear as he lays on his stomach, halfway off the bed, arm dangling down. No furrowed brow tonight, no quaking or screaming. He looks younger, the way he probably would look all the time if he hadn’t been called into some principal’s office.

Looking at him now, Boris has a horrific realization. The sick feeling in his chest, the never talking about it, the nights he spends watching Theo. Just watching him, because he’s the most fascinating person Boris has ever met. It all clicks into place. It's like someone has poured a bucket of ice water on his head.

He gets into bed as slowly as possible, rigid with fear. _ No, no, no. This isn’t happening. _

His mind wanders to what would happen if his dad found out. A mistake to even think about, because now Boris _ is _ close to a panic attack.

He burrows down into the covers, trying not to wake Theo. As a response, he turns his head toward Boris- glasses thumping to the floor- and _hmms _contentedly into his shoulder.

Boris squeezes his eyes shut tight. He’s just drunk. This will fade.

This will fade. This will fade. This will fade.

He’s able to fall into a haggard, murky sleep. 

He’s in his bedroom at his own house. It looks the same, save for the walls, made of bleak grey cement like the unfinished buildings he would squat in while homeless in Ukraine. It's silent. Colder than normal.

Heavy footsteps begin thundering up the stairs. His father, screaming bloody murder, and it's clear what's going on, he knows, he knows, he knows about the terrible icy thing Boris has only just figured out himself.

Boris runs to the door to brace all his weight against it, and his father is a freight train, superhuman, colliding into it headfirst. It stays closed, hinges rattling, knocking against Boris' shoulder over and over as he listens to his father bellow, _ no boy of mine, never._

Suddenly Boris sinks to the floor. His strength is pouring out of his limbs. He tries to lift his legs to the back of the door, like he used to in order to keep him out, but they ache, he can’t even move them. He feels his throat close and his breath leave his lungs. He scrambles backwards, away from the door, threatening to splinter into a thousand pieces as he feels his nose busting open, his ribs beginning to crack, one by one.

Deep purple bruises bloom up and down his arms, blood starts pouring from just above his ear. His father doesn’t have to break in, Boris realizes; he can kill him just like this.

Boris’ eyes are starting to swell shut, but through what's left of his vision he sees his mother sitting on the bed. She’s looking at him with her head cocked to the side, uninterested in getting up to help. She opens her mouth-

“Boris!”

Theo is leaning over him, gripping his shoulders, looking bleary and worried. “Are you okay? You were- Jesus- it sounded bad.”

Boris searches his face wildly, looking for something that would reveal that this is just another nightmare. Theo is about to turn on him, hurt him, leave, tell everyone. But there isn’t anything.

“Boris?”

Boris nods quickly. 

“Jesus,” he says again before flopping back down beside him. 

Boris still feels his heart pounding in his ears- the dream is slipping out of reach already but the phantom fear isn't going away, nor are the ghosts of aches scattered across his body. Impulsively, Boris turns and wraps his arms around Theo’s waist. He tucks his head into the crook of his neck, like Theo has done to him so many times.

Theo stiffens, just for a moment, before hugging him close, running his hands up and down Boris’ back. 

Thin fingers card through his hair. _ Shh, you're okay. Boris, you’re okay._

Which is fine. It’ll be fine. This- these feelings, the fear- will all go away. It was just an awkward moment, lips on lips, and a nightmare too surreal for any rational person to fear, he tells himself.

Not to mention that they’re both still plastered. He isn’t about to let a random drunk night ruin the only semblance of a normal life he’s ever had.

Theo’s skin smells dirty, like chlorine and desert and everyday teenage grime. It almost makes Boris want to cry. He’s spent too many nights in too many places curled up around himself, wishing someone else was there. And now someone is.

If feeling this way about Theo has the potential to stop nights like this from happening, to stop the comforting hand curled in his hair, then Boris can’t feel this way. He can’t risk it. He won’t. 

He thinks about his mother, looking down at him curiously from his bed, disappearing behind blackened eyes. That isn't what she would do. She wouldn't just sit there. She wouldn't.

Quietly, in Theo’s ear, Boris begins to hum:

_ A-a-a, a-a-a, byly sobie kotki dwa… _

The next morning, Boris remembers that something frightening had happened to him, but he can’t remember exactly what. 

He thinks maybe he and Theo had a fight. Something like that, because all of the sudden he finds himself pushing his only friend away.

He doesn’t feel like talking on the bus, or sharing headphones. They share a joint, but only one. And when Theo strips and jumps in the pool, Boris doesn’t follow. 

The next week, he’s buying weed from a girl in his Civics class who shoots him a wink and he feels like all of his problems have been solved.

_ I’m in love. _

_ Oh yeah? With who? _

Suddenly everything makes sense. Kotku, Kotku, Kotku. The way she pulls at his belt loops, the way she tugs at her bangs. Her low cut jeans, her nasty jokes.

Boris loves her. He knows it.

They have sex a lot. It feels amazing, even more so because it doesn’t stir anything except the things that it should. It doesn’t leave him wanting to cry or yell into the sky, overwhelmed with her. It doesn’t make him laugh wildly, or shake with fear. It’s perfect.

Kotku is fun, and she’s dangerous, and being with her makes Boris forget all his problems. What more could he want? And being with Kotku is just so _ easy, _like he’s eating junk food, like he's wasted on the cheapest shit he can get his hands on. Which, more often than not, he is.

He has a nagging feeling of guilt, though. Theo looks at him differently- misses him, he can tell. Boris certainly doesn’t _ want _ to spend less time with him. But he has a girlfriend- that’s what you do when you have a girlfriend. Theo’s watched enough TV to know that. 

So he lets himself fall into the pattern. More Kotku, less Potter. It’s okay, he tells himself. 

But he can’t pretend there’s no part of him that wants things back the way they were. He’s picked Kotku, he can’t go back on it now.

(..._Picked? Like they were in competition?) _

But at night, when he feels most alone, the warmth of her in the bed beside him doesn’t make the old ache go away. He doesn’t know why. He finds himself singing the song again, but only in his head. Somehow, it seems wrong for her to hear it.

_ A-a-a, kotki dwa, szarobure, szarobure obydwa... _

There’s a pillowcase in Theo’s locker.

Boris learned the combination to it a week after they became friends, peering over his shoulder as he put his books away. It’s become routine to move things in and out; what’s his is Boris’, and vice versa. Today he’s looking for lunch money, and maybe a piece of gum, since he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a week and a half.

The pillowcase is leaned upright against the back of the locker, the lines too even, shape too small to be an actual pillow. Curiously, Boris pulls it out, turns it over, peers inside. He sees something rectangular wrapped up in newspaper, barely visible through what must be an entire roll of tape.

There’s only one thing it could be, he thinks, wrapped up so tightly, in secret.

He thinks back to that night, one of the first they’d gotten well and truly wasted together. _ Dr. No. _Theo running upstairs and then back, carrying- this.

Boris considers what would happen if he were to take it, right now. The same way he’d pocket Theo's lunch money. Would Theo laugh? Hit him? Kill him?

Probably none of those. Probably Theo will yell _ give it back, asshole! _and get over the whole thing by the morning, rolling his eyes as Boris cackles. 

Without thinking, Boris slams the locker shut and carries the parcel into the bathroom, locking the door, and shutting himself in the smallest stall, just in case. He fishes his house key out of his pocket and starts hacking.

After a few minutes of hard work and ignored pounding on the door- _ I gotta shit, dude!- _he gets the newspaper off.

Gingerly, he removes the cotton, the sheets of thin paper on either side, and turns over the board. 

He barely registers it, but he thinks he mutters Theo’s name. 

Boris hadn’t gotten a good look at it the first time, but now, inches from his face, it’s clear as day.

This is a painting of Theo.

Boris doesn’t know jack shit about art. He’s never understood why people pay money to go and look at pictures they could easily look up themselves on the internet. He doesn’t see the beauty in old bigoted painters painting rich people doing rich people things, available to be viewed only by other fucking rich people.

But he sees the beauty in this. Inexplicably, suddenly, it’s like his ears slam shut and he’s in a vacuum. Him and the bird. Him and Theo.

He sees him in it everywhere. The wall, bare at first glance, coming to life in golds and greys, dancing in shadow. The rusted railing where he sits, worried, tempted to fly away but knowing that he’ll only ever end up right back where he started. In the bird itself, beautiful and frail, too small, too muted for something so lovely. The stark gold on his wing, bursting to be seen, only by those with patience enough to look. Only for him.

And its eyes.

There’s only one other place Boris has seen eyes that sad.

Another sharp knock on the bathroom door. _ I’m getting a teacher, prick! _Boris hastily wraps the painting back up and darts out, ignoring the jock shouting at him as he walks away with his head down, towards shop class.

Kotku doesn’t understand what he wants her to do. Just wrap this up, he explains to her, to look more like this. 

She weighs the Civics book in her bony hands and looks at him skeptically. Together, they wrap the book up between two pieces of cardboard and newspaper. They even find the right tape. 

Boris isn’t as careful as Theo, and the finished product looks sloppy, rounded at the edges and generally like it had been done by a maniac with a tape fetish. He shrugs- it won’t be long before Theo figures it out either way.

Kotku asks him why they just did that, and what’s in that first package anyway. Boris ignores her.

_ Ach, śpij, bo wlaśnie, księżyc ziewa i za chwilę zaśnie... _

It starts playing in his head of its own accord. He’s watching Theo frantically throw dirty clothes into a backpack as Boris bites his bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. 

He can’t go now, he can’t. Not without-

Theo pulls the Civics book out from behind his bed. He glances at Boris, who stares at the floor as if it’s his job. He didn’t know Theo had brought it home. He hasn’t looked at it, he doesn’t know.

Spit it out, Boris.

If you say it, you can just give it back to him. If you say it, he won’t be angry with you. If you say it, he won’t leave. He won’t be able to- the painting is still sitting in your locker at school. Theo will have to wait to get it, at least another day. Borya, you have to make him stay.

But he doesn’t say anything. His mother keeps singing in his ear. 

He’s imagined life without Theo, of course. He’d been preparing for it from the day they met. Because everyone always leaves. And if they don’t, then Boris has to. But after a while with Theo, that hypothetical became further and further away. Why would either of them leave? After all this? What a ridiculous notion. Theo is a part of him, like a limb he can’t walk without. Or stand upright.

So watching him pack now is like living a paranoid nightmare. What if that’s just it, he’s just on a bad trip, and he’ll wake up any minute- back in the playground, Theo crumpled at his side, grinning dreamily?

_ I hallucinated that your dad died. And you left me. Was terrible. _

But Theo heads for the door, and Boris still hasn’t woken up. 

Her voice in his ear is driving him crazy, too much, too much sadness for a night like this. He starts mumbling a different song to drown her out. _B__ut__ if you close the door, the night could last forever… _

Theo is babbling about New York City when Boris spots the cab. It’s real, he’s going. He’s going to leave Boris here, to fend for himself, to be with Kotku and his father and all the other people he doesn’t fucking _ need_. 

So kissing him doesn’t feel like a choice. He just does it, because suddenly he thinks he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

It’s like they’ve done it before- a hazy memory floats back, something sloppy and wrong- and Boris tears himself away before he can learn whether or not Theo is going to kiss him back. He doesn’t want to know.

"Good luck. I won’t forget you."

I took your painting. Please, stay. Beat me up, curse me out, take it back, never talk to me again. But stay. Even if all I get to do is stare at you in English class.

Theo is gaping at him, dumbfounded, silent. His sad eyes are impossible to read: he’s trying to send a message in their usual silent language, but where Boris usually sees _let’s get out of here_ and _help me walk _and _don’t joke about that, _he sees something he can’t decode. Something raw, and complicated, and ancient. (Something Boris should already know.)

He waves quickly and gets in the cab, stiffer than Boris has ever seen him. The cab pulls away. Theo doesn’t turn around to steal another look.

After a few long minutes, Boris turns to go, back to his house. He probably won’t see Theo again, he knows. And the prospect of adding his name to the long list of people Boris has left behind hurts more than he'd imagined it would. Theo wasn't supposed to be like that.

The night is suffocating, the sky too wide above him, the houses too big. He picks up the pace, staring intently at the asphalt beneath his feet. He keeps seeing the back of Theo’s head through the cab’s back window. Staring straight ahead.

He’s running, almost tripping because he can barely see. The tears don’t fall- that would be too certain, he thinks. That would make it all just a little too real.

Boris goes to school the next day, but talks to no one, not even Kotku. He marches to his locker, grabs the painting, and marches home.

How long until he figures it out? A day, a week? How long until Boris is dead to him, like everyone else Theo’s ever loved? There’s a chance, perhaps, he’ll think Larry took it, desperate for cash. But it’s not Larry’s name scrawled all over that book.

Boris sits on his bed with the painting in his lap. His painting of Theo. Suddenly it makes absolute sense to him why, locked in that bathroom stall, he’d wanted to take it so badly.

That icewater feeling rushes back. Boris remembers a door rattling under enormous force, teeth scraping together. It's not much to remember, but it's enough. 

And as much as it’s a realization, it’s also a resignation. Of course he’d always known. From the first day, maybe. 

He’s sniffling again, as much as he wishes he wasn’t. He forces himself to wrap the painting back up in Theo's torn paper, tucks it under a sweater on a high shelf in his closet, where hopefully his dad won’t look. 

Boris tries to sleep, because he hasn’t since the night before last, at Theo’s house. A few minutes pass, then an hour, then two. He stares at the popcorn ceiling, trying to think of anything but Theo, and his own stupidity at letting him go.

_ Worst part is that I knew, _ he thinks. _ I knew how I felt. _

Theo hadn’t known. Not even in the vague, try-not-to-think-about-it way that Boris had. But Boris had seen it, many times: when he’d laugh his obnoxious laugh, or pass Theo a cigarette, or sometimes just sit there and catch his eyes watching him, he would see it. Theo had felt it, too. Fucking idiots, the both of them.

Cursing, Boris jumps up and grabs the painting. He falls back into bed. He curls up with it clutched to his chest. 

He hums to himself. 

It’s Theo’s voice singing in his head this time. 

_ Boris! English! _

Drunk, stumbling, almost puking by the side of the road, pretending to not be worried about the blood pouring out of Boris’ nose and forehead.

He’s trying to sing along.

_...There once were two small kittens, they both were grayish brown… _

After a while, Boris falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> zaśpiewaj to jeszcze raz = sing it again
> 
> thank you for reading! if you ever wanna chat we're on tumblr @ curlymcclain and shameful-shameless.tumblr.com!!


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